


That's A Really Fucking Cliche Title, Simmons

by orphan_account



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 01:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1571108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their relationship was lent by the fact of enforcement. Simmons is not sure of many things anymore, when he looks in the cupboard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's A Really Fucking Cliche Title, Simmons

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first grimmons since 2009 and i was 12 v. v. sorry i was thinking about it in bed (it helps me sleep ok)  
> (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

When the civil war on Chorus had been won, it was soothing to realise he could get out of this hellhole – too real, too bloody compared to Blood Gulch (despite the name and Wyoming).  
But Simmons had been a real leader; he’d proven Project Freelancer wrong in their choice of simulation troops. It’s not like the Reds and Blues could claim victory completely for themselves, however. Kimball could list all the platoons who lost their lives and those who weathered the battles.

They weren’t around long to celebrate. (Simmons had a sneaking suspicion Kimball wanted to rid Chorus of Caboose before he managed to set something else on fire, and he wouldn’t leave without the rest of crew. His attachment to Church remained as strong as ever, but he’d learnt to rely on the others more when he needed help understanding certain things).

Simmons had turned to look at Grif when the Pelicans had arrived. He’d remembered the time they’d spent in the canyons, when he’d hung off the edge of a cliff and only Simmons held him there, when he’d defected to the Blues (twice). It was hard to imagine a life without Grif by his side, day by day. Sarge on his own, Simmons no longer there? He almost winced. Despite this, Dick Simmons knew it wasn’t easy transitioning back to civilian life for any military serviceperson. 

Except it wasn’t about the drills or commanding orders or the mess halls, it was about the people housed inside those haphazardly designed bases. The atmosphere, the ambience, it grounded him to remember his father was wrong. He wasn’t just a kid who wasn’t allowed to compete with the mathletes. He was a man who stood by his soldiers – he’d taken down the Meta, faced down Federal soldiers, said no to a Freelancer (even though they did come back and help infiltrate the Director’s facility – so he’ll take both heroics).

It’s a long flight. Simmons is reminiscing again, and it’s all about the same person. When they first met (fucking slob, he walked into the room they shared and the other had emptied their entire suitcase on the floor – Simmons couldn’t fathom it), their first argument (within five minutes of meeting). The irrevocable tie the two shared now was obsolete now, as far as Simmons understood. Proximity had lent to their close relationship, and now he’d figured Grif couldn’t be more excited to be rid of him.

To the deep of it (little as Dick would admit), it crushed him. After so long and a plethora of events they’d endured, it all came down to this departure that could see Simmons lose the one person that clenched his chest so tightly he couldn’t breathe.  
It’s not like he’d own up to that, though. Stiff upper lip and all that shit his father went on about. The endless bullshit that, after the awkward teenage years, was still ingrained in him. 

The galactic course isn’t clear, but he’s certain the distance to Earth is much closer than where they were prior to the crash. His stomach twisted in nervous anticipation, because saying goodbye to Donut is going to take longer than the time allotted, and he has no words that convey his sense of loss for the entire team and especially that one orange soldier.

Grif is smoking, inside the Pelican. He reconsidered his prior sentiments. 

“For fuck’s sake, Grif, stop smoking! It’s against the rules! Look at the signage,” Simmons snaps beside him, furiously pointing to the white and red notification above their heads. The moment was photogenic, fit for an ironic post on the internet.

“Look at me, Simmons,” Grif replies in his usual devil-may-care tone, then touching the opposite man’s shoulder. “List three rules I’ve ever followed.”

“When this ship goes down, it’s going to be your fault again, asshole.” Simmons snaps his head away in annoyance to look at Donut in the seats on the opposite side. He’s deep in conversation with Doc about solar power and organically grown dragon-fruit, gesturing with his hands wildly.

At least they’ll be together after all this, Simmons thinks in envy. This plummets his mood further. At the start of the war, when he’d been shipped out, this was the last feeling ever envisioned. 

Sarge is napping, the weariness of his entire service hitting his shoulders. Sitting by him is Caboose, who looks forlorn. He seemed to breaking at the seams of the loss of Church, and that hurts Simmons more than he’d ever thought. Sympathising with that boy was the again – the last thing he’d ever imagined. 

Washington and Carolina were going to court regarding the Project Freelancer program. The rest of the soldiers involved with Wash had written testimonies, and at least one segment had been completed. Tucker had insisted on accompanying him for further support. But, for their participation in the war it was at least certain they had representation for their reform. Simmons’ tendency to worry compulsively left him quiet in that aspect, thankfully.

As far as the plans for the Epsilon A.I. went, he wasn’t being terminated – he was to be transferred to an artificial body (science, science was cool) and left to have some peace after the torture of Alpha. Above all the others voicing concern, Epsilon insisted on his own freedom and his team supported him in this decision. 

All these tying of knots, these closures for the people around him; Simmons didn’t have the bright prospect of acceptance or adventure around his corner. It was back to where he started. It choked him.

Even Grif had Hawaii for him, a place he couldn’t think of complaining about in letters back home. 

The Pelican jolted to a stop. From Chorus there was a small station that held ships capable of FTL, allowing a return to Earth in approximately three days. Simmons went over the logistics (30 light years in a day, they should be fine).

“You ready to get off, kiss ass?” Grif asks, disembarking with his meagre bag. They left their armour behind on Chorus, for the fledgling new republic. Simmons begins to think he’s underestimated how long they have left together. Three days is a long time beside Grif.

He sighs.  
“Yeah, whatever, it’s a surprise to see you getting up yourself,” Simmons grunts in reply. Grif immediately slumps back into his seat and waits for Simmons to turn back around. “Oh, come on. I didn’t mean get back down!”

The ex-maroon soldier stomps over and roughly grasps Grif by the wrist – ignoring the slight tingle of skin-on-metal contact – and they walk out the pelican together.

“First thing we’re doing when we’re back on Earth: skin coverings,” Grif says offhandedly. Simmons just wonders at the we.

“Just be thankful I saved your fucking life. I should be getting a life insurance payment or something, or carer’s pension for what I did throughout it all.”  
\---  
“I guess this is goodbye then, Simmons.” Donut is standing in front of said man at the terminal just prior to Earth, where ships await their respective arrivals to countries on ground below. Donut has tears welling in his eyes, and Simmons doesn’t know what to do.  
Donut grasps him for the tightest hug in his life, and Doc is looking on with a sombre smile. 

“Well, Simmons. It’s… it’s been an honour. I know we pulled through together like a team. You even saved me from that cell, no thanks to Grif,” Sarge says, patting Simmons on the back. “Dirtbag,” he breathes under his breath. Sarge gives up the manly contact and grasps him in a suffocating hug even more encompassing than Donut. Simmons isn’t too sure, but he might hear more than one sniffle.

“Sir, I couldn’t have imagined anyone better to serve under.” Simmons is holding it in. He turns to the one he hadn’t wished goodbye yet.

They share a look for a few moments, and Sarge is assuring Caboose everything will be okay, son. Simmons can’t shake the feeling of not letting go, no don’t let go don’t let him out of your sight he could be hanging off a cliff one day and you won’t be there he might need someone to get him milk in the middle of night after a bad fight on Chorus who will make sure it’s just the right temperature what if he’s not there when

So Grif just nods his head. “Well, guess this is it.” He looks like he’s choking, lost for words. Simmons nods back, picking up his suitcase with the meagre supplies he’d cherished over the years. (In the bottom, there’s a pluck for the guitar Grif had at Blood Gulch – it has ‘hot bitch’ in small lettering, visible only up close). 

“See you around,” Simmons says back to him in a raspy voice, scratching the back of his neck. 

“Yeah. Kiss ass. Don’t kiss too many asses, be careful about the ones you pick, Richard Simmons.” Dexter lightly punches Dick’s shoulder.

“Dexter Grif, remember you can’t live off compensation for the rest of your life.” Simmons turns, a lump in his throat and a fist to his mouth. His ship is waiting and this is it. He watches Tucker and Washington, boarding their own, from the distance; Caboose is being led to the right ship after stepping on the wrong one.  
This is it, he supposes. Simmons isn’t really sure of much anymore.  
\---  
His father is long passed away now, but he sells the family home because he can’t stand to look at it nor the garden he spent time being forced to practice sport. There’s a small spot, just out of town, hidden away enough but close to small shops nearby. It’s quaint, its paint is peeling, but in the midst of the hustle and bustle of modernity it’s just what Simmons needs. After the metal walls that contained he and his platoon for so long, this is the change he requires to move on.

If he could manage that, at least. Simmons has seen enough of war to be on his watch, but in his luck he doesn’t suffer as Washington does. Perhaps it was the carefree time in standing around talking, the men and women beside him that kept him afloat, whereas Wash had all his friends die or betray him. Simmons could see how he’d warmed up to the Reds and Blues, for their lack of inhibitions and expectations.

He might find somebody himself. A girl with crooked teeth, wavy hair, cocky attitude, or a boy with a temper to counter.

It’s the sixth time that day he’s been reminded of Grif. Yesterday it was an orange-ginger stray cat (he affectionately nicknamed it Dex, because Simmons is sentimental like that) and an advertisement for Oreo’s. He also saw a band playing on the television and when he looked at the acoustic guitar, it all came back again. Who knows how he’d coaxed Command into dropping off a guitar, something about it being therapeutic. Which was reason enough, aside from the fact it was Dexter Grif.  
The melodies were often sweet, but repeated to the point Simmons would hum it under his breath following orders from Sarge (and doing it on the triple time).

Grif would know to play when Simmons couldn’t sleep at night, particularly after the donation of his organs. Sometimes, Simmons even thought it was for him, but Grif had dismissed that instantly in his typical fashion.  
He’d volunteered for a local charity group. He was receiving the same government reimbursements as the rest of the Reds and Blues, after Project Freelancer’s actions and manipulations. It was comfortable, at least. Simmons could even go in public without being stared at for his ‘extra parts’. It seems cyborg- discrimination is still a thing in this town. The doctors expressed extreme surprise at the situation he’d been placed in (admonishment at his self-sacrifice for Grif: “It’s not like you were married to the man. Soldiers die, it happens.” Simmons ordered for a different medical practitioner after that) but nonetheless impressed with Sarge’s handiwork. He told them about Lopez for nostalgia’s sake and reference on how the parts had been fitted.

He’d never felt better, physically. The body that had once been mangled now was a smooth milky white, no signs of the efforts of Sarge. The only thing missing were the freckles that once adorned his left arm.

It’s still not enough. On rainy Sundays, he looks out the window beside the front door and wishes Grif would come knocking on his door, asking him how his weekend is, and have you found someone? Am I still yours?  
Simmons thinks it might be a good idea to keep a journal again, but then he cringes at the fact of having to write thoughts down, and it’s all a bit much for him right at that moment.

When he receives an email from Donut, he bursts into sobs because he misses that flowery smile. That person who instantly endeared you, whose traits you recognised from a mile away, an effortless demeanour that infected others. His signature is in bright pink.  
Simmons waits for an appropriate time to reply back (thirteen minutes fourteen seconds) and hits send. He grasps the bridge of his nose.

It’s a few months later (from the time in May when they arrived back on Earth, Simmons is counting the calendar since he saw Grif: everyday is a repeat of the last. Sometimes Dex comes by, sometimes he watches reruns on television, sometimes he reads books. He has no friends. His friends are gone).

Simmons decides enough is enough, and goes on a walk through the woods surrounding the area. He has no car, because he doesn’t need one (more efficient, he’s thinking of Doc). The house looks small and insignificant on the outside, and Simmons thinks the simplicity suits him too. The inside is bland, a kitchen fit for one, a table for one, a bedroom for one. Everything is spotless because Grif is in Hawaii and Simmons is by himself. There is no one messing up the cupboard’s order-by-times-of-use, because Grif is in Hawaii. All the washing is hung and dried in the garden, and put away after ironing. There are no iron stains on the tablecloth because Grif is in Hawaii.  
In idle moments, he wonders where his life would be without the men and women he knew. He’d be in a dreary office. It almost makes him cry again thinking of a life without Grif.

Then he remembers he is living a life without Grif now, and he turns right back around and slams the door behind in the house. Because he’s living the life he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to settle down. This isn’t settling, regardless. He’s waiting for someone else to make a move they’re too scared to – both, frightened by something intangible. Who is there to judge now? 

Thus, Simmons must confront a fear from within himself. Maybe. He’s trying not to get too far ahead of himself now. 

“Fucking idiot,” he curses to himself. 

He quickly opens an internet browser. Grif, Dexter on the search engine. White pages, Hawaii. He’s grasping for something now.

“Hello?” he hears a groggy answer. “Do you know what fucking time it is, stranger?”

Simmons smiles. He feels a little bit more alive than he has in a while. “I don’t know, why don’t you get off your lazy ass? It’s midday.”

There’s silence on the other end for a beat, heavy breathing and a rustle of sheets. “No fucking way. It’s you! I’ve been trying to contact your ass for months!”  
“Whoa there, what do you mean?” Simmons begins to pick his fingernails and walk aimlessly. 

“I don’t know where you live and do you have any idea how many ‘Richard Simmons’ live in America? Try a fucking lot, kissass,” Grif growls back. Simmons is leaping for joy because it’s him. The grouchy asshole that makes him want to kick garden gnomes over in frustration. “Before you get too comfortable over there, Simmons, you’re coming to Hawaii. Pack your fuckin’ bags, Dick.” 

“Yeah, okay, I’ll do that.” He will. He absolutely fucking will. “I don’t know, I’m liking this clean kitchen. Did you know it’s been five months of no cereal boxes on the floor and stains on the bench?”

He hears a breathy laugh. “Yeah, but, you know you miss the person that did that.”  
“I guess so, later asshole.”  
“Fuck off, nerd.”  
\---  
Simmons is at the airport in Hawaii and he’s looking for Grif who was supposed to be here at 2:54pm, but then again, it’s Grif, and it would be quicker to grab a coffee and come back. 

He’s getting bashed in the shoulder, and he turns to cuss at a passerby when he sees that ruffled hair and (much more tanned than last) skin. He’s Grif in Grif form, evidence of an operation on the parts that were Simmons’ (Simmons knows his heart is in Grif’s chest).

“Hey, watch where you’re going,” Simmons says to Grif, in the best intimidating tone he could muster. He has a suitcase – like that time back from Chorus, full of his belongings – and Grif is smirking, remembering the last time he saw it too.

“Let’s go, before I leave you behind.” Grif tugs Simmons’ shoulder, reluctantly moving at a quick pace. It’s not in his fashion, but he wants Simmons away from the crowd.

“You know, Donut contacted me a while ago,” the auburn haired, vest-wearing man said in the front seat beside Grif. He growled in the driver’s seat. 

“Well, Donut never cared to tell me he had your information.”

Simmons rolled his eyes. “It’s not up to him we stay together like twenty-eight-year-olds clinging to their teenager years.”

“We’re more than that. We’ve…” He can’t reply, so he taps the steering wheel in both relief at having the kissass nerd beside him, and disbelief of the moment.

“I know.” Simmons feels like he’s back somewhere soft and cosy. It’s just a seat in a car, but he knows it’s the people that matter. Not the house, but the home of the heart.

Simmons doesn’t go back. He stays with Grif. He only misses Dex because that cat might not have someone to look after him (he sends an email to Washington, telling him if he’s in the area to lookout for an orange-ginger cat). He sells the house because it wasn’t a home. (This was always his home).  
In the most cliché manner, Simmons and Grif end up married (Grif fucking put a ring in his drink – Dick ended up needing the Heimlich manoeuvre, but it was sweet, sort of). It’s not a surprise to anybody.  
It’s worth it, in the end. He’s sure of a lot of things now, and a few of them include reliving every moment of Wyoming, Tex, the Meta, the Director, for the journey and the culmination of it all.

**Author's Note:**

> I organise my cupboard that way, okay? It's efficient.  
> (づ｡◕‿‿◕｡)づ  
> p.s. much obliged if you would like to make a comment. feedback is lovely! i'm sorry if you hate me after this- i tried


End file.
